


seasons

by missandrogyny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, and i want to contribute to the courfeyrac/enjolras tag, seasons of looooove, usually i don't post my tumblr stuff here but i'm really proud of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Courfeyrac, through the seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cc_auriyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cc_auriyana/gifts).



> written for diana on the occasion of her birthday!

**FALL:**

It is fall, the first time Enjolras and Courfeyrac meet.

They are but schoolboys, released from the dull, dreary lecture halls of the university classrooms. Many of them had rushed out as soon as the lecture is over, eager to salvage what remained of the beautiful day. Try as they might, the professors could not hold the attention of the students.

Paris wears fall well; a burgundy coat with fine details of gold and brown that rests upon her shoulders. A crisp wind blows about the city, rendering it into a scene of a Vernet.

Enjolras had joined the rush of students, his thoughts drifting away from any ideas of law and politics. Despite his interest in the subject, he could not seem to find it in himself to focus on what the professor was saying.

He thinks of the draft of the pamphlet stuck between his book. It would need heavy revising, but he’s certain that after a few hours of writing, editing, and proof-reading, it will be ready for printing.

So lost is he in his thoughts that he does not notice a figure rushing in his direction until they have collided, sending both their books crashing onto the floor.

The figure curses under his breath and crouches down, quickly picking up the books. Enjolras drops to his knees as well, helping him, and it isn’t long until they’ve both got their own books in their arms.

The figure looks up, and Enjolras recognizes him as De Courfeyrac, a law student such as himself. He was often told off by professors for speaking far too loudly.

Enjolras is about to speak when De Courfeyrac pulls out a pocketwatch and runs quite dramatically past Enjolras, his hat falling off his head.

Enjolras picks it up, turns it over in his hand, before shrugging and taking it home with him.

It isn’t until later in the night that he realizes that he had grabbed a book that was not his. His pamphlet is gone; in its place are a few sheets of papers, filled with ideas and arguments against the monarchy, all signed with a “Courfeyrac” on the bottom.

He reads, and he finds himself riveted. The papers are witty and engaging; they are passionate and they seem to stir something inside Enjolras. He finds himself nodding vigorously in some arguments, finds himself making noises of sympathy at the examples given. Each word seemed to fit against each other perfectly, spinning a story told with much flair and enthusiasm.

When he finishes, he places the papers back in the book, picks up a pen, and begins to write. He does not know how he will return de Courfeyrac’s book (and hat), but for now he is inspired. He writes until he has three pages filled with arguments, all stronger and far more passionate than his pamphlet.

(De Courfeyrac finds him the next day, as he’s walking through the cobblestone streets on the way to a lecture. He appears in front of Enjolras, all smiling face and disheveled brown curls, and says wryly, “I appear to have taken your book.”

"It appears so, seeing as I have yours in my rooms," Enjolras replies, "along with your hat."

"You’ve found my hat! I thought I had lost another one."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, but does not comment; de Courfeyrac’s smile grows wider, a smile filled with such infectious joy that it has the corner of Enjolras’ lips twitching up slightly.

"I am Courfeyrac," he says, extending a hand.

"Enjolras," says Enjolras, taking the other’s hand for a moment before dropping his own.

"Now," Courfeyrac asks, his smile never faltering, "do you have a moment to spare? Your pamphlet spoke of wonderful ideas which I whole-heartedly agree to, and would like to hear more of."

"You read my pamphlet?" Enjolras asks, eyes wide.

"Of course," says Courfeyrac, "I was curious, and it was a wonderful read before bed. Have you not read mine?"

"…I did read yours," Enjolras admits. "And I thought you did wonderfully."

Courfeyrac links his arm with Enjolras’ and drags him off to the nearest gardens. “You must tell me more of your ideas against the monarchial system.”

And so Enjolras does, walking arm-in-arm with Courfeyrac, the leaves falling in their wake.)

**\---**

**WINTER:**

Winter in Paris is far too cold for Enjolras’ liking. He has always thought himself a child of the sun, has always found himself thriving more in heat than in the cold.

The snow had fallen the previous night, and now Paris seems to be cleaner, purer. There is snow on every surface, and the colors of Paris glow in a background of white.

Enjolras is walking with Courfeyrac back to his rooms, the latter extolling the virtues of the snow. Courfeyrac had bounced like an excitable child when he learned that it had snowed, and had gone all the way to Enjolras and Combeferre’s rooms just to tell them of it.

"—look how beautiful it makes everything seem, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says happily, and Enjolras watches as a snowflake catches in his hair.

"So clean, so white; It is as if Paris had undergone a cleansing, a purification, so it is ready to face the challenges of the new year."

"You say that now," Enjolras huffs, watching his breath mist in the cold air, "but remember that when you’re freezing to death."

Courfeyrac laughs, a tinkling sound, making Enjolras grin slightly. Courfeyrac’s joy has always been infectious, and its effect has not diminished in the weeks since they met. Courfeyrac has the warmth like a hearth; he has the ability to make anyone feel loved in his presence.

"I would feel much better," Enjolras says, burrowing slightly into his coat as a harsh wind blows across him, "if I were back at my rooms, in front of a fire."

"Oh, my friend, you will get there," Courfeyrac says, still grinning. "But for now, enjoy the Paris that is wrapped in a cloud. Besides, I have always thought that you have looked much more at home in the winter than in the summer."

"Is it because of my icy disposition?" Enjolras deadpans.

"Some part of it, yes," Courfeyrac agrees cheekily, "but sometimes it looks as if you were made for the winter; you sometimes look like an ice sculpture when you’re far too focused on something. Ah, we have arrived at your lodgings."

Enjolras makes his way inside, glad to be out of the cold, while Courfeyrac looks almost sadly at the outdoors.

Enjolras makes his way to a cheerily burning fire, warming himself up. Combeferre, seated on a chair by the fire, takes one look at him, and stands to get him some tea.

Courfeyrac follows Enjolras, sitting in front of the hearth and warming his hands.

They sit in silence until Combeferre returns with tea and a quilt for the both of them.

"I’ve started the fire," Combeferre says, sitting down on his chair and starting to read again. "Now you both have to keep it burning."

"Perhaps we can burn your curtains," Courfeyrac muses. "It is dreadful, an eyesore. You should think of getting new ones."

"You cannot burn my curtains, Courfeyrac," Enjolras says.

"But they’re horrible and I dislike them very, very much."

"You cannot just burn everything you dislike."

"Children," Combeferre interjects peaceably. And then— "did you know that some moth caterpillars are covered with stinging hairs?"

"Why would we need to know that?" Courfeyrac asks.

"To further your knowledge on the wonderful creature that is a moth."

"Ah, yes. We will stage our revolution with an army of moth caterpillars." Courfeyrac says, teasingly. "The National Guard will not be able to touch us."

Combeferre huffs, a small smile playing on his lips.

They sit in companionable silence after that, basking in the warmth of each other.

**\---**

**SPRING:**

It is spring.

Paris is subdued; the colors muted, fading into pastels. The flower buds peek out shyly from beneath the dull green of the grass, and the trees wear their laurels at the edge of their branches.

There is a chill in the air, but there is less bite to it; it is cold, but one would not freeze to death. There are patches of sunlight scattered all throughout the city, the sun showing a preview of what it will offer come summer.

Courfeyrac bounces through the botanical gardens, admiring the flowers.

Both Courfeyrac and Enjolras had just gotten out of a lecture, and the former insisted on taking a stroll through the gardens to see nature at work. Although Enjolras had grumbled about it still being cold, he could not seem to shake Courfeyrac’s excitement.

"Isn’t spring wonderful?" Courfeyrac asks, plopping down to sit on the ground. He had lost his hat ages ago, misplaced it somewhere, so the wind ruffles through his brown curls. His hair had lost most of its style, but he hardly seemed to care.

"It’s still cold," Enjolras says, from above him. "Why are you seated on the ground?"

"To witness nature at is finest!" Courfeyrac announces dramatically, sweeping a hand through the gardens. It did not say much, since the trees were still barren and there were hardly any flowers around.

Enjolras sighs. “Get up, Courfeyrac.”

"No," Courfeyrac says.

"Won’t your current paramour say something about the state of your trousers, when you see her later?"

"Ah," Courfeyrac says, standing up and wagging a finger. "So you listen to tales of my conquests, hm, Enjolras?"

"You are far too loud, retelling them to Joly and Bossuet," Enjolras answers. "I just happen to overhear it, that’s all."

Courfeyrac laughs brightly, leans forward and wraps his arms around Enjolras. He leans forward and presses his forehead to Enjolras’, the two of them sharing breath for a few still moments.

It is an intimate gesture, far too intimate for two young men in the middle of a botanical garden in spring, but Enjolras can hardly find it in himself to care. He wishes for it to last, but Courfeyrac is filled with energy and he’s pulling away, putting distance between them once again.

"Are you jealous?" Courfeyrac teases. "You needn’t worry, Enjolras. Despite my many conquests, you, I believe, are still the prettiest. How can a man such as myself turn down such talk of revolution?"

Enjolras flushes lightly, and answers, “You are far too ridiculous sometimes.”

"Sometimes?" Courfeyrac asks. "What am I most of the time?"

"Childish."

Courfeyrac leans forward and presses a quick kiss on Enjolras’ cheek, before he is running away, waving a hand back to Enjolras.

Enjolras sighs, and watches his retreating back. Courfeyrac has always been a tactile person, especially towards both Enjolras and Combeferre, and it is far too difficult, because Enjolras finds himself craving more and more of Courfeyrac’s touches nowadays.

Courfeyrac is a hurricane; a whirlwind of excitement and action that catches both Enjolras and Combeferre in its wake. He excites and he warms and he is filled with so much verve that it is almost impossible not to be swept away in his enthusiasm.

It is hard to compartmentalize, to break down Courfeyrac’s entire being into a few chosen words. Despite the number of words, despite the language, there is not one that can encompass the way he laughed animatedly, or the way he empathized with the people. He is far too big, far too exciteable, and far too fleeting for words. It is similar to how one cannot aptly describe the sun to another who has not experienced its warmth. Courfeyrac simply  _is_.

Enjolras walks home alone, the drumbeat of his heart echoing his thoughts.

**\---**

**SUMMER:**

"No, Enjolras," Courfeyrac tsks. "That simply will not do."

It is summer and Paris is an explosion of color; the sharp greens, bright reds, and light blues scattered throughout the cobblestoned streets and stone houses. The sun shines down brightly, illuminating everything to the point of iridescence.

Courfeyrac is standing in Enjolras and Combeferre’s shared quarters, frowning disprovingly. He sighs, and his hands reach out to Enjolras chest, where his shirt rests, unbuttoned.

"It is not decent," Courfeyrac tuts, as he buttons up Enjolras shirt to his neck, "to go out in this state of undress. I do not care if you think it is too hot for clothes, but the fact remains that it is not decent and not very practical at all."

He finishes the last button, and spreads his fingers over Enjolras’ chest, smoothing out the wrinkles. Enjolras huffs at him.

"Are you happy now, Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac’s lips twitch up in a smile. “Hardly. Now you need a waistcoat.”

Enjolras almost whines.

Courfeyrac picks up a red waistcoat from the floor, where Enjolras discarded it this morning, deeming it too hot to wear.

"I do not understand you," Courfeyrac says, handing it to Enjolras. "You complain of the cold during winter, yet you complain of the heat during summer. What is it that you really want?"

"Perhaps I simply want fine weather," Enjolras answers, buttoning his waistcoat himself before Courfeyrac can do it for him. "Not too hot, not too cold."

"Don’t we all? There, now you look almost decent."

The corners of Enjolras’ lips twitch up in a smile. “Almost?”

"You’re missing a cravat."

Enjolras sighs. “I do not want to wear a cravat.”

"Yet you must. Where is it?"

Enjolras doesn’t answer, so Courfeyrac looks through his things until he finds one in the depths of one of his drawers. He returns to Enjolras, and slowly loops it through Enjolras’ neck.

"I do not understand," Courfeyrac says, tying the cravat around Enjolras’ neck, "why someone as smart as you refuses to either do his cravat properly or wear a cravat at all."

"I hate the damned thing," Enjolras grumbles. "Especially during summer. It’s too hot, and it chokes me, and I cannot look down properly with it on my neck. It restricts my movement."

"You still must wear it, Enjolras," Courfeyrac says, patting the cravat where it sits on Enjolras’ neck. "There. Don’t touch it anymore."

Enjolras sighs, and Courfeyrac throws his arms around Enjolras in a hug. The movement brings close, enough that Enjolras can easily count Courfeyrac’s eyelashes.

Courfeyrac presses his forehead toward Enjolras’. He has been doing that more recently, and it never fails to make Enjolras’ heart beat quicker. He waits for it, waits for Courfeyrac to pull away and make some inane remark, something that Enjolras can laugh to while he tries to still his beating heart.

It doesn’t come.

"Could I perhaps," Courfeyrac says, sounding unsure, "trouble you for a kiss?"

Enjolras has known Courfeyrac for almost a year, and despite the length of time, his novelty still hasn’t worn off. He’s still excitable, still childish, and still far too energetic for any sane person, but he’s smart, witty, and passionate. He is a force of nature; a hurricane, a storm, the sun, a forest fire, spreading warmth and light to everything he touches.

And yet those words are hardly enough. Those words do not accurately encapsulate him; for he is a drought yet he is a storm, he is the sky yet he is the ground.

Courfeyrac gazes into Enjolras’ eyes, and his something crawls through Enjolras’ lungs and squeezes, leaving him gasping for breath.

He closes the distance between them.

He tastes Courfeyrac, drinks from the well of  his mouth. He revels in it, for a few short moments, before he is pulling away,Courfeyrac’s arms around his neck restricting movement.

Courfeyrac breathes heavily, his eyes wide. “Kiss me again,” he says, and Enjolras does.

This time, Courfeyrac takes charge, teaches Enjolras how best to taste the other, how to seek for more. It is the cool rain on a hot day, it is the patch of sunlight on a cold day; it is gentle, it is perfect.

They break apart after a few moments, and Courfeyrac smiles at him, and unwinds a hand from behind Enjolras’ neck to fix his cravat.

"There," he says. "You look decent again."

Enjolras laughs, and steps back. “We shall be late for our lecture, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “I would rather while away my day kissing you than in our lecture.”

"I think that can be arranged."

They spend their day in the gardens, lying on the grass and watching the clouds. Their hands would brush, Courfeyrac would speak of nature and how beautiful it is, while Enjolras would speak of how beautiful Paris is. It is simple.

It is summer, and Courfeyrac thrives beneath the sun; radiating warmth and happiness. It astounds him, the way Courfeyrac seems to make everything brighter, especially during summer.

Enjolras has learned the seasons through Courfeyrac; has met him in shades of burgundy and gold, has laughed with him in a background of white, has teased him in a world of pastel, and has now kissed him in an explosion of vivid color. Nature was made for Courfeyrac, the seasons created to set him off perfectly.

Their hands find each other like a compass and its polar north. They get lost in each other.

Together they explore each other’s hidden crevices.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://courfeylicious.tumblr.com)!


End file.
